


a little uncomfy

by orphan_account



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Underswap, Dubious Consent, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, POV Second Person, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-10 18:35:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6969445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He looks at you, serious, intense, and asks: 'Can I kiss you?'</p><p>You freeze. 'Will it make you happy?' you ask.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a little uncomfy

**Author's Note:**

> //////shows up a literal month later with disgustingly short excuse of a request fill 
> 
> (also i got no clue how to write this blueberry skele he is a mystery to me)

 

See, the thing is: you’re not stupid. You really aren’t, not in the way that you know people assume sometimes. You’re not stupid. You’re actually pretty observant, if you’re giving yourself credit-- and that’s something you do, give yourself credit, but only for the things you deserve the credit for, like making dinner better and better every night or getting your brother to his job on time. You’re not stupid.

And see, another thing is: you aren’t naive. There’s a lot you don’t know, a lot you don’t know if you want to know, and a lot you know you want to know. The world isn’t as bad as your brother makes it out to be sometimes, you know that even if you haven’t seen the whole thing. You aren’t naive, and you aren’t a child, no matter what your height makes you seem like. You aren’t naive, and you aren’t stupid, and you care about a lot of things, and you care about your brother.

You aren’t stupid, or naive, and it happens like this: gradually, and then all at once.

You know Papyrus drinks sometimes, and you know it used to be a lot more frequent, and a lot worse. And it’s gotten worse again lately and you aren’t sure why, until one night he stumbles into the house with alcohol strong on his breath and stutters out some sort of drunken confession, and _‘I’m sorry,’_ he says, _‘I’m horrible,’_ he says, ‘ _disgusting, awful, the worst brother ever, the worst monster ever,_ ’ and _no no_ you say, frantic, because you hate hearing people talk like this and you hate hearing him talk like this.

 _You’re not horrible you’re not awful I still love you of course I still love you_ you say, because you’re confused and a little scared of the way he says these words like they’re practiced-- and you aren’t stupid, you know what kind of weird taboo everything is, but _you’re not disgusting_ you comfort, because you love him so much and you don’t want him to say things this like this about himself.

And somewhere along, you think your words get muddled and lost in translation between his shaky breaths and foggy mind, and he looks at you, serious, intense, and asks: _‘Can I kiss you?’_

You freeze. _‘Will it make you happy?’_ you ask.

 _‘Yes,’_ he says, quickly, frantically, _‘It’ll make me so happy, sans,’_

 _‘...Alright’_ you say with a slow slow nod because that’s all you want, really, your brother to be happy, and you aren’t naive and you aren’t stupid but this will make him stop crying and hating himself, so. So you let him close the distance between you and try not to choke on bitter taste that invades your senses.

 

And the thing is: you’re not stupid. You’re not stupid, and it works. He’s a million pounds lighter when he walks, a thousand days younger when he smiles. He’s _happy._ And that’s all you want.

He’s really happy sneaking little kisses when you visit his station throughout the day, and he’s even happier laying out on the couch in front of the tv after dinner, long body curled around yours. He grins like the sun when you lay the food out on the table and smile, and looks like he might cry when you say _‘love you too_ ’ before you go to bed, and-- he’s happy. And that’s what’s important.

You aren’t stupid or naive and it’s your job as his brother to help him be happy, it’s for him, it’s for him, it doesn’t matter if you don’t feel like kissing him or his hands resting on your waist make you shiver in a not-good way, because it’s for him, and you couldn’t bear it if something you did sent him spiraling back down the bottle. He’d never forgive himself, and he’d never get over it, and nothing would ever be the same, and.

And it’s for him.

(And the thing is: brothers aren’t supposed to hover over you and look you up and down and trace their hands along your ribs, and brothers aren’t supposed to whisper things that make magic rush to your cheeks and sink into your bones with a feeling that it _shouldn’t be there_ that this... shouldn’t. Just shouldn’t.

But the thing is: it’ll make him happy-- and it feels good too, really good, if you relax and breathe and focus on the sensations. He’s happy, and so you are too.)

 

 _Are you happy?_ He asks one day, a bent mirror of your question from all those nights ago.

You look at him, and think about his hands on your spine and the light in his eyes when he tells his awful jokes, and smile, and say: _‘Yeah!’_

He smiles back, and says: _‘I’m glad.’_

And that’s all you want.

 

 


End file.
